


don't separate you from me

by sepiacigarettes



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21884239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sepiacigarettes/pseuds/sepiacigarettes
Summary: He’s no stranger to pain, to death, to Rey.But he doesn’t have a memory like this.He doesn’t rememberanythingbeing as painful asthis.In which they save each other.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 28
Kudos: 146





	don't separate you from me

**Author's Note:**

> I watched The Rise of Skywalker yesterday and was both happy and sad and this is the result

> There's always been a disconnect
> 
> Running from my heart to my head
> 
> And no it's never made much sense
> 
> I've been feeling so distant
> 
> Can you be the one to connect?
> 
> Pick up all the pieces again?
> 
> Pull away the world from me,
> 
> I don't mind
> 
> As long as they don't separate you from me
> 
> I'll be fine
> 
> — PVRIS, _Separate_

—

He remembers the panic.

He remembers running, feet hitting the dirt, _too slow too slow too slow_. He remembers feeling _Rey,_ knowing she was struggling, and praying he’d get to her in time. He remembers finally seeing her through the Force, remembers realising she was alive, that she was alright for now. He remembers the way she looked at him, telling him without words what she wanted. He remembers reaching behind, fingers curling around the lightsaber she gave him and feeling the rush of relief.

He remembers being held by Palpatine, being thrown.

He remembers falling.

He remembers other things too: the first time he saw her on Takodana, the way she’d glared at him on Starkiller Base and said he was afraid. He was. He realises that now.

He remembers their fight in the forest, remembers watching her close her eyes and _breathe._ He remembers the flare of pain when she sliced his face, remembers the sight of her leaving.

He remembers seeing her through the Force for the first time, when the droids were stitching up the scar she gave him. He remembers her firing her blaster at him, remembers her crying as she asked why he killed his father. He remembers her coming to him after the horrors of the cave, sitting with him, speaking to him. He remembers the vision of the two of them together on the throne.

He remembers offering his hand.

And he remembers even further back: all his years with Snoke, with Luke, with his parents.

He remembers pain, and how effective it was at teaching him. He remembers craving it, chasing after it, needing it to be stronger, to be better.

He remembers his father’s eyes, and how sad they were as he fell. He remembers his mother, calling for him, and the feeling of being split in two when he felt her leave. He remembers how broken he and Rey felt—remembers her, crying freely as she healed him, and him letting her, because they were both losers in that moment.

He’s no stranger to pain, to death, to Rey.

But he doesn’t have a memory like this.

He doesn’t remember _anything_ being as painful as _this._

 _Rey,_ he thinks.

Because everything aches and bleeds and _hurts_ right now, but nothing nothing _nothing_ compares to the way his chest is being crushed as he holds her limp body to him. She’s lifeless, a ragdoll in his arms.

 _Rey,_ he thinks, eyes burning, throat clogging up, tears choking him.

She’s gone.

When he pulls back to look at her, her head lolls, eyes empty and blank.

_No. Please, no._

She doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. He can barely remember how to breathe.

The Rey he remembers is fiery, brave, headstrong. She’s stubborn and mouthy and never lets him get away with anything. She wears her heart on her sleeve, and he’s seen her cry again and again as they talk and argue and fight together, because she feels everything so keenly.

This Rey is not like that.

This Rey doesn’t respond when he calls to her through the Force, doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. There is nothing.

No.

_No._

She can’t be gone. She can’t.

If she’s gone, this would all have been for naught. He saw her take his hand, he _saw_ them on the throne. He’s the other half of her, and sitting here, cradling her unresponsive body, his soul screams for her.

He knows what he has to do.

 _Please,_ he thinks desperately, laying a hand over her stomach.

It’s so still.

_Please._

Nothing.

_Please._

He’s always struggled to contain his Light, to squash it down and extinguish it. Years of calling to the Dark, of wanting to be accepted by it, has always made him wonder if perhaps he’s too far gone, beyond saving, beyond hope. But he felt the first licks of Light at the edges of him on Kef Bir when he was talking with his father, felt it growing within him as he raced to Exegol, a flame flickering weakly.

And it does not fail him now.

It pours forth, a hesitant stream flowing from his hand to her, answering his plea.

It’s been so long he almost shies away from the Light as it lets him coax it to the surface and direct it into her. But he doesn’t.

He keeps his eyes closed, just like how she did on Starkiller Base, and _breathes._

_Please._

In, out.

He thinks of the Light, of the Darkness. He thinks of the Sith, the Jedi. He thinks of the Resistance, the Final Order.

In, out.

He thinks of life and death, of breaking and healing. He thinks of the area between them, the greyness. He thinks of balance. He thinks of Rey.

In.

_Out._

A hand covers his and his eyes snap open to look at her, to see her blinking, to see her chest heaving beneath him, lungs expanding with oxygen.

 _Kriff._ He did it. He _did_ it.

Their Bond ripples with shock from both of them and the waves spread outward, each one knocking into him as she sits up, eyes searching his face.

For a moment, they’re at a standstill: her, looking at him, trying to understand what she’s seeing, and him, feeling as though he’s being broken into pieces all over again as he takes in the colour of her cheekbones, the brightness of her eyes.

“Ben,” she says.

And then she smiles. At _him._

 _Rey,_ he thinks, and already she’s reaching for him in his mind, blanketing him as she touches his face, thoughts a jumbled mess of _BenBenBen._

 _Rey,_ he thinks again, because he can barely form words right now, and she kisses him.

She kisses him and Ben feels relief like no other, like a downpour in the desert after years of drought, like the heavens finally opening and knocking on the ground, calling the water forth.

Her hand is warm upon his face, her nose is squished against his, and it feels like safety, like completeness, like coming home. His arm tightens around her, keeping her as close as he can, because she’s alive in his arms, she’s breathless and beautiful and she’s looking at him like she never has before; like he’s the only person she wants to look at for the rest of her life.

He feels the same.

He doesn’t have a memory for this.

He doesn’t remember being happy like _this_.

He doesn’t remember feeling this bubbling sensation inside him, this fountain of happiness pouring over the foundations of him, soaking his bones, drenching him from the inside out.

He can’t stop the smile that overtakes his face, can’t stop staring at her, _her,_ the scavenger from the desert, Palpatine’s granddaughter, his equal in the Force, his other half, Rey, Rey, _Rey._

He doesn’t remember feeling a love like this, sweeping through him like wildfire.

“Ben,” she says again with a smile of her own, because she _knows_ how he feels, her hand gripping his own tight.

He told her she’d take his hand. She told him she’d wanted to.

She’s holding it now, and he can’t stop smiling.

He can’t stop _smiling._

But it’s too late.

It’s too late.

—

He should have known she wouldn’t let him go that easily.

They are two sides of the same coin, unable to exist without each other. He brought her back, knowing the cost of it, because without her, nothing else mattered.

He wouldn’t have survived it.

“Neither would I,” she tells him, eyes glistening with tears, cheeks drenched with them, hand still clasping his. It’s tight enough to hurt. “Neither would I.”

—

The war ends, and like with all wars, the aftermath is messy, drawn out. Rebuilding is slow; acceptance comes slower.

The Generals take their time with him, like they do with one another. He doesn’t remember seeing anyone as smitten with each other as they are, doesn’t remember two people so slow to bridge the gap.

But eventually they reach a truce of sorts.

He doesn’t remember feeling this whole before.

He doesn’t remember anything like the shockwave that Rey’s touch causes in him; doesn’t remember anything like the novelty of Rey’s kisses.

There are gentle ones to his eyelids, sweet ones to his temple. There are the soft ones during the night, when neither of them can sleep because their dreams are horrible and frightening. There are more purposeful ones in the morning, when the sun falls across Rey’s face.

He doesn’t remember feeling anything like _that—_ the heat that builds underneath his skin. It is not Light, nor Dark, and yet it grows, burning brighter and hotter as her mouth moves over his, as her tongue dips between his teeth.

He doesn’t remember this quiet urgency to peel himself open, to have Rey look into the burnt remnants of him. But he does. And she does.

She touches him and it flays him, tears him apart. She gasps out his name and he doesn’t remember anything like the approval in his bloodstream, the liquid gold sliding down his spine. She holds him and it feels like healing, like being stitched together again, like easing back into colours after a lifetime of greyscale.

—

They go to Tatooine. He doesn’t remember feeling this carefree, watching Rey toboggan down the dune.

They bury the lightsabers, together, next to the house in which his grandfather was found.

"Rey Skywalker," she says and he doesn’t remember feeling this at peace, this _certain_ of anything before.

But he forgets to compare it.

The two suns are setting. Rey is by his side, tangling their fingers together, speaking to him through their bond with words of love and light and affirmation.

He’ll remember this, always.

**Author's Note:**

> Bug me on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/sepiacigarettes)


End file.
